Angels in Waiting
by Getsunny
Summary: Detective Ashlea Godfrey, a forensic psychologist, doesn't like Connor and Murphy MacManus one bit. However, she will need their help if she wants to bring down the South Boston Jack, a 21st century version of Jack the Ripper. Murphy/OC, Connor/OC.
1. Chapter 1

(Hello everyone! This is a fanfic for The Boondock Saints, one of my favorite movies. This is dedicated to Rachel who, like myself, is a huge fan of Murphy McManus.)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Boondock Saints, or any aspect of their franchise. The characters Murphy and Connor MacManus are sole creations of Troy Duffy. The only thing I own are Ashlea Godfrey, Eileen, and the South Boston Jack, which I created.

(Now, since I have that covered, on with the first installment of Angels in Waiting.)

Angels in Waiting

Chapter One

_It began with one girl. Felisha Elwood, was her name. She had gone missing one evening back in September, and her girlfriend called the police-worried out of her mind that Felisha hadn't made it home. They found her three days later-dead, abandoned in some dank ally, bound by her wrists and ankles, and completely naked. Ashlea remembered the stench of the freshly rotting corpse, though she had smelled things worse the macabre scene displayed before her had her mind reeling and her stomach clenching horribly._

_There she was lying on the ground, naked as the day she was born, thin cords cutting tightly into her pale, blue wrists and ankles. Her fiery red hair fell across her pallid face in bloody ringlets and draping her shoulders like a blanket. An endless amount of foot-long gouges traced up her body as if someone had used her as a carving board. What struck Ashlea the most were the pale blue eyes staring blankly at her, two large gaping abysses forever petrified with fear._

_That had been the first girl._

Ashlea Godfrey stood on the concrete stoop of a dark, decaying building, her blonde hair swirled around her face as fierce gusts of wind whipped up the streets like the hounds of hell and she vainly combed her thick hair behind her ears. She felt a foreboding shudder skate up her spine, the street was deserted and it left an ominous weight in her gut.

South Boston wasn't the most desirable place to be alone and in the dark, but here she was, standing outside a decrepit tenement at eleven-thirty at night. Ashlea groaned crossly and pounded her fist on the old, beaten door. "Connor, Murphy!" she yelled, "Its Ashlea Godfrey open up!" After a minute pause she decided the twins would be in a more charitable mood if she added a small 'please' to her order and quickly tagged that onto the end of her demand.

She stood back as the sound of foots thundering cacophonously down the stairs erupted behind the door, and a hasty scrambling to undo the locks on the front door began. The door was thrown open wide and on the threshold, drenched in warm, golden light was Murphy MacManus, clad only in a pair of rumpled jeans, "Ah Detective," he said in a pleasant, Irish lilt, "what can I do for you in the middle of the night?"

"Shut up and let me in," she replied brusquely, shouldering her way past Murphy and into the warm, old, foyer of the apartment. She was already unhappy that she was going to the Saints for help on _her_ case, and Murphy-the smart ass he was-was not improving her mood in the slightest. Her eyes lingered over the dingy interior of the apartment, from its chipped marble floors to the broken radiator that ran along the side of the wall sputtering to life vainly for a few minutes before dying again with an all mighty groan. "I see you've remodeled," she remarked scathingly.

"Ay," Murphy quipped, "our profession leaves us loads of extra time."

"Here I thought killing low-lives would consume your whole schedule." Ashlea retorted coolly. She glanced back at Murphy who still stood on the threshold of the post-and-lintel doorway his lean, pale back contrasting beautifully with the dull, gold light he stood in. Murphy glanced back at her, dark blue eyes staring a hole through her.

He rotated slowly and Ashlea drank in his lean, muscular figure like water. He was the clichéd dark, and brooding beauty that girls coveted and boys were envious of. He _was_ sin. Murphy MacManus was desire taken physical form. His dark, cropped hair and tormented dark blue eyes were the likes of supermodels, and every teenage girls dream. Ashlea noted dazedly that he was rather like a fallen angel, damned to walk amongst the piteous mortal everyday for eternity.

"-go up stairs to talk." Murphy's voice brought her out of her reverie, her cheeks tinged a light pink and she avoided looking at Murphy, instinctually knowing he was smirking at her.

"Yeah," she said absently, "I need to speak with Connor as well." Murphy smiled smugly as she hesitantly met his eyes and stepped past her.

"Right this way, Detective," he said, and led her up the crumbling wooden staircase to the fifth floor where he lived with Connor. "Mind yourself though, Eileen's in a right foul mood for waking her up."

"Who's Eileen?" Ashlea asked absently, trying to keep a civil conversation with the MacManus twin; she might have disliked them and what they stood for, but she needed their help and being rude wouldn't help her to persuade them into teaming up with her.

"Con's girl," Murphy elaborated vaguely. The rest of the climb up the immense set of stairs was spent in silence as Murphy walked ahead of Ashlea. Murphy stopped at the fifth floor landing and waited for Ashlea to catch up to him. "Going for a stroll?"

"Shut up," she grumbled wearily. "After you," she gestured down the hallway and Murphy walked confidently down the hall. Ashlea followed behind him grudgingly glaring holes in the back of his head. Murphy reached the door that led to their homely flat and knocked on the frail, wood door, "Oi," he yelled, "ya fucktard open the door; I forgot my keys."

The door was opened and Murphy waited until Ashlea was by his side before entering into his apartment. Ashlea entered the roomy flat and nearly doubled over at the improved living conditions of the twins. Long gone were the days where they slept on two little cots shoved against the walls; dividers separated two areas for the twins to sleep in, and the loo was also roped off nicely from the rest of the house. No clothes littered the wooden floor, and the coffee table was also bare of its usual assortment of beer bottles and cigarette ashes.

"I thought you said you had no time for renovations," Ashlea said to Murphy with a quirked blonde eyebrow.

"Aye, we don't. However, Eileen-God bless her-she does," Connor, the second MacManus twin, said amiably, as he pushed the door shut behind Ashlea and Murphy. Ashlea spun around to face the bronze-skinned counterpart of Murphy.

It was almost comical how Murphy and Connor differed from each other, while Murphy was dark and pale-skinned like the Moon incarnate, Connor was blonde and tan like the sun's child. He was the same height and build as Murphy, though a little more broad in the shoulders, but he had dark blonde hair and dark, chocolate brown eyes.

They also differed in personalities, though they both shared a witty and biting sense of humor, Murphy was standoffish, more withdrawn, but on the inside he was brimming with this quiet energy that seemed to radiate from within him. He drew everyone's attention to him, without ever saying a word. Connor, on the other hand, was pure spit-fire; everything he did was filled with this passionate drive that took many by surprise.

"So Detective Godfrey," Connor asked pleasantly gesturing her to sit at the ancient wooden table, "What can we do for you?"

Ashlea lowered herself into a chair and waited for the MacManus twins to seat themselves across from her, each piercing her with their inquisitive stares. Ashlea picked at a knot in the roughly hewn table, stalling herself for the inevitable. "Well," Murphy urged gently, his Irish accent soothing her frayed nerves, "What is it Ashlea?"

With a shaky breath Detective Ashlea Godfrey began, "I'm sure you know about the South Boston Jack," she started hesitantly.

Connor cursed lowly, "That god damned mother-fucker."

Ashlea nodded, she agreed fully with him, though, she had never phrased it that _eloquently._ "Yes, well, we, the FBI and I, are having some difficulty tracking him down-"

"Our sympathies Detective," Murphy cut in, "but _what do you want us to do about it."_

Ashlea sighed, "Fine, I'll cut to the chase, I need your help. This man-no-this_ thing_ he has already killed seven girls, and he won't stop, he'll kill again. "

Murphy and Connor exchanged a glance, surprise clearly etched on their face. Ashlea waited with bated breath as the twin's seemed to have a silent debate that no one besides them could understand. Finally, just as Connor opened up his mouth to reply a stern, unfamiliar voice interjected:

"Absolutely not." Ashlea glanced up and her eyes met with fierce, fiery green eyes. A petite girl, clad in a black tank top and black underwear stood in the center of the room watching them with narrowed eyes, and a cigarette hanging limply in her right hand, long, pale fingers holding it aloft. Her long, raven colored hair spilled over her shoulders like night against untouched snow. _This must be Eileen, _Ashlea thought as she scrutinized the glaring girl.

"You will not involve them in your work," Eileen continued imperiously, "you have no business asking them to put themselves in such danger."

"Asking them to put themselves_ in danger_," Ashlea muttered faintly, disbelievingly, "You are telling me that I can't ask them to put themselves in danger? Are you _blind;_ they do that every day without my help!"

Eileen stalked forward and slammed her fists on the table, "You are only asking them because you cannot do your job properly!"

"We are doing all we can," Ashlea defended her blue eyes clashing with Eileen's green eyes, "but I need their help. I don't want to involve them, believe me, it's bad enough keeping this secret, that I know who the infamous Saints are, and that half the Boston Police Department are roped in with them, but I need to bring this sick bastard down."

Eileen prepared for another verbal assault before, Murphy's voice broke into the din, "Enough," he ordered quietly, bringing Eileen's retort to a halt. "The South Boston Jack, for the past three months has been killin' girls: rapin' them, and then mutilatin' their bodies beyond recognition. He has taken seven girls already, seven beautiful, innocent, young girls, and he won't stop."

"Not unless we bring this sick fuck to justice," Connor continued angrily. Eileen looked at Connor, in stunned disbelieft, her emerald eyes welling up with tears. Connor stood up and wrapped her in his sinewy arms. "Don't cry Leeny," he murmured into her ear, "we have to do this, what-what if it is you next time?"

Ashlea averted her eyes, she felt like an intruder just looking at such an intimate display of affection between the couple. For a moment, her eyes met Murphy's brooding eyes, and for a second, Connor and Eileen were forgotten, for a second it was just Murphy's eyes searching hers earnestly for something-she didn't know what.

Just as quickly as that spell had been cast, it was just as abruptly broken when Connor moved away from Eileen and agreed to help Ashlea on the case. Ashlea jumped, her cheeks tinging pink. She felt foolish, oh so absurdly foolish to be drawn into whatever possesive hold Murphy held over her twice that evening. "Yes, well," she muttered absently as she stood up, desperately clutching for the composure that seemed to be flying out the window. "Thank you very much; I'll stop by tomorrow after my shift to give you further information." She shook Connor and Murphy's hands before proceeding towards the door.

"Wait," Murphy called out, as he half-rose from his chair, "you're walking home alone, and after all we just said?" His eyes blazed passionately and he looked ready to bound out of his seat in an instant. _How chivalrous,_ Ashlea's mind supplied.

"I'll be fine," Ashlea assured, letting them both get a glimpse of the revolver concealed within her black blazer, "I'm a big girl, and I can take care of myself."

Connor ran his hands through his hair and groaned, "Alright, but if anything happens you call, understand?"

"Yes Dad," Ashlea rolled her eyes and wrenched the flimsy, excuse for a door open and walked out into the hallway, "Goodnight Murphy, Connor, Eileen." Ashlea departed from the apartment building swiftly and stepped out into the dark, menacing night, the wind still howled fiercely and nipped at her hands and face, Ashlea bowed her head to the wind and walked on into the night.

(Well that does it for chapter one. If you are a little confused that is fine; this is technically a sequel to another story, but I had the idea for this in my mind and I couldn't get it out of my head so I spent about four hours writing the piece of work above. I think this story will be good and hopefully you guys will be hooked on it.)


	2. Chapter 2

_Hello again! Thank you to the one review I got. I really appreciate the compliment! Anyway-this chapter is shorter than the previous chapter, but it is still important to the story so please don't disregard it.)_

_Boondock Saints does not belong to me._

_Enjoy!_

Angels in Waiting

Chapter Two

Murphy watched with harried, blue eyes as the door of their apartment was shut hastily by Ashlea Godfrey, in the wake of her departure a tense silence ensued as Connor and Murphy stared at the door and Eileen glared at the spot Ashlea had been. They had no qualms with the detective, but she had her issues with them ever since she learned their secret, discovered they were the Saints; it must have been a real blow to her pride to ask them for help. Murphy sighed and lowered himself into the chairs around the kitchen table.

Murphy ran his rough, calloused hands through his short hair and sighed. "Fuck! Is she stupid? That creep walkin' around slashin' girls like they are hunks of wood, and she is walking around out there?"

Eileen snorted inelegantly and began the slow trek back to Connor's "room" Murphy's eyes swiveled to Eileen, "If you care so much," she said lowly, "then get out of here, personally, I don't care if he gets her."

"Hey watch it," Connor snapped to Eileen, "she is the only reason we aren't in prison right now." Eileen whirled around violently arms swinging out so she stood poised in front of the two Saints like a dangerous wild cat on the prowl.

"Like keeping you out of prison will do you any good!" Eileen screeched heatedly, "She has just killed you both!" The effect her angered words had on Connor was instantaneous he advanced forward menacingly; his eyes dark and clouded with rage.

"Now you listen here Eileen," he thundered uproariously, "people are dyin' out there and if we stand by and let him kill them, then we go against our principals!" Murphy nodded sullenly; if they didn't do their duties and help Ashlea then they would be no better than those witnesses who watched Kitty Genovese being stabbed. The scornful countenance of Eileen's face crumbled like stones at Connor's harsh words and she hastily covered her face, desperately trying to hide the tears that flooded her eyes.

The fiery anger that had consumed Connor's face rapidly ebbed away, and quickly transformed into overwhelming remorse. "Oh Eileen," he muttered. He stepped forward closing the short distance between them, his arms were outstretched like an angel, beckoning her into his embrace, but Eileen roughly shoved him away.

"Fuck you Connor," she hissed vehemently. Connor just got a brief view of her green eyes swimming with tears and rage before she turned away from him stalking to their bedroom.

"Eileen," Connor entreated, stumbling to follow her. Murphy watched them warily as they continued to storm and fume, they didn't fight often, and to see the two at odds was highly disconcerting. He listened to them as they paced around the bedroom; he heard dull thuds and the dresser opening and slamming shut repeatedly. "What the fuck are ye' doin'?" Connor yelped.

"I'm leaving," Eileen snapped back coldly, "I need to get out of here."

"Ye' can't!" Connor exclaimed, his voice was frantic and Murphy could hear the fear dripping off of every syllable. "Not when some loon is picking off girls like you!" Murphy rose from the table, on any other occasion he might have steered clear of this fight, but under the circumstances it seemed prudent that he intervened and talked some sense into Eileen. He walked past the divider that separated Connor's bed from the rest of the house and stood silently watching the two fight-waiting for a chance to step in.

"Like you care about my welfare Connor," Eileen retorted, bordering on hysterics as she threw another black shirt into a small battered luggage piece. "Like you care at all whether I'm alive or dead!" Eileen hastily wiped away the big, fat, glossy tears that were leaking from her eyes and furiously shoved a few more parcels into her bag.

"Eileen," Murphy entreated silently, "you know Connor cares for ye'. Connor just got a little heated ye' know, and he didn't mean what he said at all, don't punish him with your life-make him sleep on the couch." Eileen's furious, harried movements stilled as Murphy spoke and Murphy watched as she teetered between shoving another shirt into her bag and setting it aside and as she collapsed onto the bed in a heap Murphy moved forward deftly to pick her up.

The fight, thankfully, ended. Eileen had fallen into a fitful sleep only a few minutes ago and Connor watched her anxiously, Murphy glanced at his twin momentarily a fond smile spreading over his face. "She's not goin' anywhere Con." Connor glanced at his twin sharply, his fingers carded through his short, dark blonde locks and he sighed his agitation of the nights events finally breaking to the surface of his typically reserved, stoic countenance.

"I know she won't leave now," Connor whispered harshly, "but if ye' hadn't stopped her she would have left-God knows who is out there."

Silence settled over the twins as heavy and thick as a blanket wrapping around and ensnaring each of them in their own thoughts. Murphy muddled through thoughts of the blonde female that had been amongst them for the briefest of time and what her seeking their help meant; the police couldn't solve this case-big surprise there, but Ashlea couldn't solve a case.

This case was gruesome and from what had been released to the media-which wasn't much-the crimes seemed cookie-cutter, Hollywood slasher-esque, but from what they had pumped out of Greenly and some other South Boston Detectives it was highly unique, and whoever was killing these girls wouldn't stop or break for anyone; he was cold, calculated, and he was driven by some mad, insatiable lust for blood.

"What do you think Murphy?" Connor asked quietly.

Murphy took his time mulling over his thoughts as he lit a cigarette with a practiced methodism of a man who has long since developed a habitual routine. When you're upset-smoke. Angry? How 'bout a smoke. Contemplative and brooding-smoke.

Taking a deep drag on his cigarette, he answered, slowly, "I don't know Connor, I really don't know," Murphy answered honestly; "I just hope we can avenge those girls."

"We will Murphy," Connor reassured him calmly as he fished around for a spare sheet of linens, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a sofa." Connor grimaced and trudged over to the threadbare sofa and Murphy chuckled appreciatively and took another deep drag of his cigarette.

………

Hungry. He was so hungry.

His body ached and yearned for the sweet relief that rushed through his veins as his knife would run along the smooth, still warm skin of his victim, and his ears begged to hear the shrill screams breaking the silence of the night as he tore into her body in frenzy of well-placed slashes and long, jagged lacerations.

Though, more pleasing than the action was the thought of the action there was just something utterly artistic about playing God and deciding how much those pretty, pretty girls bled, how much they suffered, and how quickly they died. There was something gorgeously ethereal about watching ruby red blood spill over the cuts and onto glowing alabaster skin. So _beautiful._

The sheer darkness of the alley that he stood in swathed him in a cloak of protection and as a gust of lusty winds rattled up the street sending a dark shiver up his spine. He had been waiting out here for hours now, and not so much as a cat had strayed across his path. He had been waiting in the cold night for the past four hours, but he didn't mind waiting, in fact he reveled in the chase and pursuit of his victims. He never, ever killed at first sight; he stalked them and waited for the opportune moment when he could lure them in his clutches and rip the breath from their lungs and still the beating of their hearts.

'_Tap, tap, tap.'_ All inner turmoil and thoughts stopped quite suddenly at the distant echoing of high-heeled shoes against the concrete pavement sent him reeling. His body tensed and he moved to the opening of the alley and peered out at the approaching figure.

She wasn't much. A slight, wispy frame built around five feet and three inches maybe and he couldn't help but think how easy it would be to overpower her. A sinister smile curled around his thin lips and he continued to watch her approach.

She had blonde hair, and not the hideous, peroxide blonde hair color that girls insisted was so attractive but a soft, golden honey-suckle blonde that fell in soft, short ringlets around her delicate, heart-shaped face. Though, what he was most drawn to was the perfect, lightly-tanned skin and images of sweet, blushing blood pouring out of her skin like water from a fountain. He had to have her and with a satiated smile drew back into the shadows of the alley.

As she passed the alley her eyes shifted warily into the alley and her countenance tensed considerably. He thanked God that the alley was so dark and he and his black overcoat blended in so well to the surrounding darkness as he watched the paranoid girl hurry along her quick strides echoing in the silence left in her wake.

This girl-whoever she was-would be fun; he could already tell, and began planning a long chase. This girl would want to die long before he even cornered her, and with that thought in mind, he sauntered out of the alley and into the desolate street, no longer hungry.

_So I guess this is where I will leave it for now. Next chapter will come when I get some more reviews from people._


	3. Chapter 3

Angels in Waiting

Chapter Three

Ashlea shifted restlessly in the straight-backed wooden chair in front of her desk, her eyes shifted between the haphazard stack of manila folders scattered across her desk and the bright fluorescent computer screen in front of her as she poured over every last detail of the case searching for any clues. She had sequestered herself earlier that week in the storage room of the South Boston Police Precinct, surrounded by the vast catacombs of past cases- just her and the large white board in front of the desk. The white board was covered in a convoluted tracery of multi-colored ink and pictures of the victims, their family and friends, where they worked, where they ate, who they did business with; really anything that might be the proverbial link between these victims. At the moment, Ashlea was grasping at air blindly.

The only clear, definitive link between all the victims was the fact that they were all of the female variety and Caucasian. They came from different age groups, and different walks of life; she couldn't figure it out, not for her life could she see what marked them as their killer's victims.

Ah! The killer- he was a completely new breed of sick and twisted; the son of a bitch.

Whoever was killing all of the girls handled their victims with a practiced, precise, tried and true method of a professional, and there were never any relevant clues at the crime scene. Whoever did this knew what they were doing and knew how to not be caught.

Ashlea would catch him though; she had caught Connor and Murphy and they had the help of half the police in the very police station she sat in. _And the help of God, _her mind supplied derisively.

It wasn't that she doubted Connor and Murphy themselves-she just doubted religion and God, and the Saints-who supposedly were tasked by God to play his judge, jury, and executioner-did nothing to support her belief in some greater, omnipotent, and omniscient being. She had difficulty believing that any God would choose two men to clean a world of its corrupt and evil. Regardless, the Saints were good at what they did, and either by God's will or sheer dumb luck they always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.

Ashlea groaned in agitation and slumped forward in her desk. She wanted to get away from the case and go home and sleep, but she needed to stay here and sift through the overflowing, inane files on the murders; they had no solid evidence and no leads, in other words grunt police work had gotten the detectives nowhere and that is when they called in Ashlea to try and create a criminal profile based on the evidence. _It would be easier if I had any evidence to start with_, she mused as she poured over yet another file of irrelevant information.

"I think ye should take a break," a softly lilted voice whispered next to her ear. Ashlea started and spun around in her chair as her hand flew to her holster. Murphy stood behind her, his pale, calloused hands held up in surrender as he clutched a steaming, Styrofoam cup and a greasy, white paper bag.

Ashlea-having gotten over her initial shock-removed her hands from her holster and hastily smoothed her hair, while trying to force her blush to recede. "Murphy what are you doing here? How did you get in?" she asked smoothly.

Murphy chuckled— a deep and husky laugh that sent shivers racing up and down Ashlea's spine— and she scowled petulantly and turned back to her computer to hide her traitorous blushing face. "I, m'dear, stopped by to give you some coffee and doughnuts; Greenly told me you hadn't left the office too much, and I thought you might like a snack break. As for how I got in, well, I just used the front door." Murphy sat the steaming cup of coffee on Ashlea's desk along with the doughnuts.

Ashlea regarded the food and coffee-or more importantly the man who brought the food-with a wary, barely suppressed, curiosity. She searched his face for a sign of malicious intent or underlying motives for his kind deed but only found— much to her chagrin— his expression was calm, caring, and innocent; he was the absolute epitome, in that moment, of benevolence. "What are you playing at Murphy?" she queried caustically.

Murphy's brow drew together in bemusement, "I can't imagine what you could possibly mean," he mused offhandedly.

Ashlea scowled darkly. "Don't fuck with me," she warned without hesitation. She hadn't the time, nor did she have the patience to deal with Murphy and his sly, teasing remarks. "Now go," she ended tersely, turning back to her chaotic desk and beginning work with a new intense, fervor.

"That is _exactly_ what I had in mind," Murphy murmured quietly edging closer to Ashlea's desk, Ashlea watched his silhouette through the effervescent light of her computer screen. Her pulse quickened to an erratic level, and an unnatural hellish fire burned in the pit of her stomach; her whole body screamed for her to do _something_ and get rid of whatever spells Murphy had cast on her. She gasped as Murphy's arms encircled her torso and he leaned into her, his strapping body uncomfortably hot and hard against her back, and his breath skirting across her neck hotly like the gentle caress of a zephyr. Ashlea vainly tried to shrug off Murphy, but he remained unresponsive, content to just hold her.

"Let go of me," she demanded, pleased that her voice was not quivering with pure wanton desire. Everything about Murphy MacManus commanded her attention: his eyes, his lips, his mannerisms, his body, and the way words just rolled off his tongues in that perfectly seductive way. Ashlea hated Murphy, but she couldn't deny the irrevocable truth: she wanted him too. "Let go of me_._"

"Goodbye Detective Godfrey," Murphy said, and he abruptly relinquished his hold on her, "I can show myself out." As suddenly as Murphy had appeared, he was just as swiftly gone, and Ashlea was alone again.

She sighed, as she tried to collect her frazzled nerves and continue her work, but the drive to collect facts and muddle through the evidence evaded her. After ten minutes of starting and stopping, and reading the same sentences multiple times, she fell back in her chair. Her eyes lingered on the fatty food and drink that Murphy had left for her. "Fucking Saint," she muttered, reaching across the desk and snatching the lukewarm coffee and downing it in one gulp.

……

The brazen neon numbers on her computer smiled contemptuously up at Ashlea as yet another interminable minute passed. She had given up checking the time some hours ago. Her eyes traced over the documents, seeing them, but not really absorbing any of the gregarious information; Ashlea's brain had collapsed not long ago, and her mind remained frustratingly inert. Unable to contain her irritation any longer she screamed and wilted like a dying flower on top of her disheveled papers.

She remained immobile for an eternity, unable to rouse herself from the deepest pits of vexing hopelessness. The silence surrounding her in the 26th Precinct's records vault was eerily complete; ensconcing her in a blanket of threadbare security that not even her handgun- warm in its concealed holster- could make her feel safe.

"_Creak,"_ the barely audible groan of the rusted hinges of a door shouldn't have perturbed Ashlea as deeply as it did; in comparison to the usual pandemonium she could hear in the police station above her, the sound of an old door being pushed open shouldn't have even fazed her, but the deathly stillness that had wrapped around Ashlea made even the faintest of noises unnatural and foreboding.

Ashlea sat up; ramrod straight, her former weariness forgotten as she grasped her pistol, the cool metal slid underneath her fingers like liquid and her eyes strained for any sign of disturbance. Ashlea stood up, gun gripped tightly in her hand and she cautiously wandered through the rows and rows of lonely filing cabinets; everything was as silent as a crypt. It occurred to her that maybe there was nothing peculiar about the evening, but the telltale chill that crept through her veins and up her spine kept her moving, silently inspecting every nook and cranny of the vast records vault.

She didn't hear anything— or see anything, for that matter— remotely out of the ordinary, just a big, old dusty room filled to the brim with crimes of the past; that, she reasoned in her mind, didn't mean anything because it would be so easy to sneak down the stairs and leave without her noticing— the room was so vast. As she gave up in her fruitless search she faltered as a terrible, blood-curdling scream rent the air and rocked Ashlea to the very core of her being. She stood rooted to the spot as she heard shouts from above, and with every second the shouts became more panic-filled and angrier.

Glancing around the empty room, Ashlea barreled past her desk and up the stairs taking them two at a time. Ashlea's run through the precinct to the main room took an interminable amount of time, and when she finally burst through the doors, breathless and shaking, it was like walking into an area that had just suffered a series of bomb explosions. Officers in uniform and detectives in their haphazardly thrown together suits ran past her yelling orders, whispering harried conversations, and answering an endless amount of phone calls that bombarded the police station.

Ashlea tried to wend her way through the sea of police officers, but with every step of advancement she was pushed even further back. She cursed and raised herself on her tip-toes, and spied Greenly, gaunt and so lost, amidst the chaos "Greenly!" She yelled over the raised voices.

Greenly started and searched for Ashlea's face in the crowd, his haunted eyes roved over familiar faces and when he finally saw her, he sighed, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd to meet her. Before she could begin to formulate a sentence he cut her off abruptly and yanked her small body towards him. "You have to come with me," he urged Ashlea as he ushered her through the crowds, "another girl was just found; she was dumped in front of the police station…"

The din of the police station disappeared, cocooned by the unsteady lurch of Ashlea's heart and the blood rushing through her ears, and all her mind could process was the fact that another girl had _died. _Ashlea could see Greenly's lips moving flapping uselessly like a fish thrown on shore.

"Another girl died?" Ashlea asked faintly.

"Yeah— now come on we have to get out there before the vultures do." Greenly yanked on Ashlea's arm and steered her towards the door, oblivious to her state of shock.

"Come on," he grunted, "don't just stand there…we have to…" Greenly stopped pulling her and turned around to face Ashlea. His tired eyes raked across her face, and finally he spoke:

"What the fuck's the matter with you?"

Ashlea partially snapped out of her daze, but the cold void that had settled in her stomach did not desist. "Who found the…body?" she murmured.

"Uh…let's see…Bernadette! Yeah that it's! She was on a coffee run when she came back the body was on the front steps." Greenly grasped Ashlea's upper arm again and dragged her towards the glass double doors that were flung open as medical examiners, detectives, and police ran in and out of the building. Greenly urged her forward and as Ashlea hesitantly crossed through the threshold she was roughly jostled by another faceless, nameless person rushing into the building.

She saw the white tarp covering the body before she saw anything else, sprawled across the gray concrete and the pristine white bleeding crimson. Ashlea placed her hand over her mouth to hold back the bile forcing its way up, and stepped under the yellow crime scene tape and entered a completely different world.

Sound from everything outside of the yellow perimeters was stamped out and the chaos around her drowned as the heinous crime inundated her mind. She didn't look at the body— couldn't look at the body— she would look at the coroner's pictures and the crime scene investigator's pictures another day when she could handle the gore. She walked over to a detective standing just at the edge of the boundary, staring at the white tarp with a critical eye.

"What do we have?" she murmured sidling up to him, "Detective—?"

"Smith," he said brusquely. He shoved his hands in trench coat pockets and extracted a cigarette from the confines of his coat. "Definitely the South Boston Jack; there are lacerations all across her thighs, torso, neck, and face. However, she wasn't killed here; there isn't enough blood here to be the scene of the crime. She was dumped here."

With a grim smile he lit his cigarette and leaned back on the heels of his feet and stared at the inky night sky. Ashlea puzzled over what he had just told her; it didn't make much sense, and didn't run with what they always encountered when they dealt with the Jack's handiwork.

"Is there an ID on the body?" she asked.

Detective Smith exhaled on his cigarette and moved his gaze from heaven to small and insignificant Detective Ashlea Godfrey. "Yep, her name is Melinda Greggs. She's thirty-five, a single mom, and a waitress at the diner down the street."

Ashlea nodded, storing that information away for later, and began circling the body of the unfortunate Melinda Greggs. "You say she was dumped here?"

"Yep." Detective Smith answered brusquely.

"And you're _sure_ this is Jack?" Ashlea questioned her gaze cut from the morbid scene in front of her and she regarded Detective Smith dubiously.

"Yep. Why?" Detecitve Smith approached her nonchalantly, cigarette held nimbly between his two fingers. "You don't think it is?"

"Well," Ashlea began uncertainly, "I'm not sure; it has all the characteristics of Jack's work, but he moved the body, usually he just leaves them where he defiles them. It doesn't make sense."

Ashlea steeled her nerves and stooped down, lifting up the tarp. Melinda Greggs stared back at her, her dark brown eyes glassy from death and forever wide and petrified with fear. Her wrists and ankles were bound, which was unsurprising, and her dark skin was colored with blood and deep cuts that criss-crossed and connected like a complex spider web.

Ashlea dropped the tarp over Melinda again, and sat back on her haunches. There were several anomalies to this case, for one Melinda Greggs was not Caucasian like all of Jack's other victims. Ashlea always thought it might have been an affinity for the look of crimson staining pale skin, but now she wasn't so sure. Then there was the issue of him _moving the body;_ up to this point after Jack was finished savagely ripping apart the victim he cleaned up, and left the girl in whatever alley he happened to drag her into.

"Why would he do that?" she muttered to herself as she stood up. Her mind was running a mile a minute, bounding from idea to idea.

Detective Smith glanced at Ashlea, "Pardon?"

"Why would he move the body?" Ashlea asked aloud, "And _why_ would he move it to a police station, he risked being caught leaving his victim on the steps of the police precinct…unless…"

The gears in Ashlea's brain stopped moving on a singular idea. A flurry of images raced through her mind now as everything came together: Jack's former victims, Ashlea's meeting with the MacManus twins, Murphy's visit, and the stranger crashing into her as they entered the police station.

"That bastard," Ashlea growled standing up. Every person within the perimeters of the yellow crime scene tape looked up as Ashlea began to exit the crime scene quickly. White-hot rage boiled in her as she ran through the front doors, weaving expertly through the pandemonium Detective Greenly and Detective Smith hot on her tails.

"What is it," Greenly asked as they approached the door to the records vault, confusion evident from his tone.

"He didn't kill Melinda Greggs for the same reason he killed all of his other victims. He killed Melinda Greggs to send a message to us, then he waited, _and then_ waltzed into the precinct while we were outside and panicking."

Ashlea drew her gun and threw open the door to the records vault, stealthily descending the stairs. Greenly and Smith followed behind her, causing more of a ruckus. "There is no way that could happen," Greenly hissed, nevertheless drawing his gun. "Do you know how sneaky that guy would have to be? _Fucking invisible!"_

"Shut up," Ashlea spat as she rounded the corner into the records vault, gun aimed at an invisible attacker. There was no one in the empty room. It was just her, Greenly, Smith, and the hundreds upon hundreds of past cases.

"I told you," Greenly said matter-of-factly pocketing his weapon in its holster and leaning back perfunctorily, hands on his hips. "There is no way anybody could sneak into this precinct without us noticing he isn't one of us."

Ashlea ignored him pointedly and began to approach the desk she had been working in only half an hour before. Everything appeared normal and untouched, and she sighed. She was glad her hunch was wrong and she fell into her uncomfortable wooden chair and opened up the nearest manila folder glancing at its contents casually. Her heart lurched uncomfortably again and she gawked at the seemingly innocent folder where a thick lock of her hair rest on top of the pile of papers.

"Greenly," she whispered faintly, "you're wrong."


End file.
